Heap Big Rubbish Writing

 Just been watching a typical western where some native American Hollywood Indian--- sounding like he was from the Bronx--- called He who jaxcars, is chasing a runaway bride on behalf of some jealous cavalry General called Ornery William Cuthbert Custerstone III, or something like that.

Anyway, the Indian halts the whole platoon of soldiers as he spots something in the distance, he charges across vast and open prairie only to leap off his horse and study a horse track that he has spotted from five miles away. The cavalry come charging behind him with the bugler sounding the charge, followed by a meddle of hits from Showboat and the Pirates of Penzance, and they in turn stop to take in the near miracle hawk like abilities of this native American with the strange lower east side accent and study the hoof print. 

He grunts one word which sounds faintly like bita-bing-bita-bong and the Colonel looks meaningfully into the misty mountains beyond and states, while taking his hat off and mopping his brow with the back of his sleeve:

"He says she passed here two days ago carrying a saddlebag full of her worldly possessions, a ruck sack, two guns and a bootleg copy Debbie does Dallas"

With that the Indian saddles up, grunts and they all charge off to a rousing accompaniment of Pappa's got a brand new bag, played on the bugle, and we are left looking at the solitary hoof print.

All I'm thinking is: isn't finding a hoof print in the middle of cattle driving country a little like discovering a tyre track on the M25 and what happened to the other four hoof prints? Surely they should be looking for a severely disabled horse or one on a pogo stick

I lost interest in the end and wondered, not for the first time, does no one keep an eye on the scripting rooms in Hollywood, or do they just keep on feeding them bananas and hope for the best?!